Starting Over
by HLCullum
Summary: A multi-chapter tale of blossoming love in the wild lands of Whiterun and the way it all burns down in the end. OCxOC with a sprinkle of familiar characters thrown in.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: So while this is not the first story I've ever written, it IS the first story I have posted in MANY years. After taking too long of a break, I really would like to get back into the practice of writing. This will be a multi-chapter story about a Breton running from her past and the love she finds instead. So, it takes place before the events in Skyrim. Hopefully I've gotten all of the details right. I'm waaaay more into Oblivion, but this one begged to be written, so here we are. Good or bad, let me know what you think! And, of course, The Elder Scrolls are copyright to Bethesda. I only own Sorcha and Norring.

**Summary: **A tale of blossoming love in the wild lands of Whiterun and the way it all burns down in the end.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Whiterun was a paradise on Mundas, Sorcha thought upon her fifth day. This was not the first time she'd had this thought, though it came unbidden, and at first she had been wary to accept it. From a young age she'd been taught to think Markarth was a Breton's paradise, and where had that gotten her?

And yet, five days in, and all she'd found here was peace, happiness, and unyielding support for an Empire she was starting to find a reason in. If Whiterun had any fault, it was that this place was still not yet far enough away from the Foresworn.

So, as such, and with a surprisingly heavy heart, she knew that soon she would have to carry on for Winterhold.

That being decided, what was one more day?

She smiled to herself as she walked past Gildergreen, the most spectacular natural wonder she'd ever seen, on her way to the equally impressive Talos shrine. There would be no praying – she'd scarcely heard of an Aedra beyond Dibella – but the statue stood before Dragonreach and shadowed by Jvaskrr, and the beauty of it all was worth at the very least an hour of her time.

And there was another reason. On her third day of refuge in the hold, she'd learned the Talos shrine was the first pit stop of all the Companions, including _him. _Especially him.

Despite herself, she hurried and sure enough, there he was with a few others, bowed before the man who became a god. Every day since that first sight she thought herself a fool, even as the air sucked from her lungs.

Of all things, he was a Nord. Not a particularly built Nord, as she'd thought all Nord men were supposed to be, but undeniably Nord all the same. The lean muscles that were exposed in his iron armor still stood out, more so than the ideal visage, even.

He was a Nord, but that did not seem to bother her libido too much.

She took her spot on one of the benches that arched before Gildergreen and wiggled a bit before settling in a direction that was only partially towards him. He and the others – another Nord as well as an Imperial – stayed crouched praying, but for what?

Victory in battle? Fame? Gold?

The Foresworn did not waste time on such certainties. Perhaps the Companions should possess more of that pride they're known for. For how long they prayed, she didn't know, but the sun was steadily rising and the peaceful chill had grown warmer to the point where heading under the Gildergreen and facing the market instead sounded more alluring.

She was going to miss this place more than the hold that she had called home her whole life, and that was saddening.

"What is a pretty Bret like you doing in a place like this?"

She jumped, and looked over to, she'd loathe to admit, a handsome Breton – not that he had compared to the Nord, damn him.

She tensed at first, seeing one of her own in civilized clothes, by trade a farmer from the looks of it, with tanned skin and brown hair peaking under his white hat. Handsome, to be sure, but she had found a recent preference for blonds.

So she shifted again, facing the shrine more fully, to show her disinterest, and said without facing him, "Well, pretty people prefer to be surrounded by pretty things."

She may have looked completely unconcerned, but she saw from the corner of her eye the way his body shook, his head reared back, and his hands came up to his chest for a haughty, if not slightly sarcastic, laugh. Not the typical gestures of a Foresworn warrior, and from the skin that peaked from his skin she could see no markings. However…

"Oh ho!" he shouted. "Feisty, aren't you? Do you have a name?"

"Do I want to tell you?" she shot back, still scanning him from the corner of her eye. There was always a tell. "Hmm, the answer is no."

That should have been the end of it. Her cold shoulder was enough to freeze all of Whiterun, and what stranger would _want_ to subject himself to that?

And yet, just as she was confident she had ended things, he was suddenly there before her, blocking her view of the Talos shrine and its Companions. He leared in, not so close that he added to the growing heat, but she leaned back all the same. She moved to just get up, but his hand came out and rested on the bench just behind her shoulder.

Her heart caught in her throat.

"You know," he said softly, "you keep talking like that and people are going to assume you're hiding something."

Sweat broke out.

Sorcha wiggled, in appearance to put more distance between them, but in actuality her fingers reached for the dagger she'd picked up, her only weapon, her last defense against any Foreworn.

"People shouldn't be so nosy," she grounded out, her voice as hard as her grip. "so back away now before I scream. There are guards everywhere, and those men over there behind you are Companions. Don't be stupid."

Silence lingered between them, the feeling strangely intimate as their air mingled, and she prayed – to who, she later wondered – that this moment would finally end without her having to resort to violence.

Finally, he backed off, his hands open in mock surrender. "Whoa, lady, you obviously don't know how to flirt."

She felt her face sour up, but her grip never lessened. She'd wasted ten coins at the inn, for after this she would have to leave immediately.

"And if I had any interest, you'd see the amulet of Mara around my neck."

He looked, his gaze lingering a tad too long, before he shrugged and without another word, sauntered off.

Good, she thought, setting her sights back on the shrine. With horror she saw that the Companions had risen at some point and were now staring back at her, having seen just part of the exchange. They looked to be in shock, but surely not nearly as shocked or mortified as she.

Sorcha's hand let off of the dagger, but she continued to watch as the Nord, the one that had caught her eye, clapped the older Nord on the shoulder and ran off. He did not spare her a glance, and it was as if all the beauty in the world could not make up for this day.

She rose, face red, and hands jittering over this scratchy dress, to remove any imaginary dust. As a precaution her hand swept over her coin purse – only, it was met with more itchy fabric.

Oh, no.

She whirled around back to the bench. Nothing. Sorcha instantly turned her body toward the lecherous Breton, just in time to see the Nord tackle him to the ground. The closeness, his interest in a secret…he hadn't been a Foresworn at all.

Sure enough, just as she had realized the obvious, the Breton began calling for mercy and yielding her coin purse, to which the Nord snatched away before pulling him back up to his feet. By now guards were surrounding the pair, but listened as the Companion told them to stand by. Once he was sure the Breton would not be running away, he allowed the guards to take him away. His focus was now completely away from the commotion now that he had his goal, and her heart.

She could hardly stand to watch him, his blond hair billowing in the wind, and the sun turning it from near white to an almost holy aura. Sorcha felt herself growing sick a second time. "Here you are, lass," he said, his accent unlike the Nords she had heard before, if not a little reminiscent. "You really can't trust those Bre—Oh." His free hand had risen as he spoke, until the shade it brought above his eyes allowed him to see her clearly.

His expression dulled instantly, just as her very rounded, quite _Breton_ face reddened.

"Sorry," he said, sounding anything but.

It was enough to bring her back and out from his cerulean eyes. She snatched her coin purse. "It is quite alright. After all, it must be so difficult to help such a plain Breton. I appreciate your effort." And then, in a crisp move that was anything but grateful, she fished out a single coin and tossed it at his chest. That left nine.

It fell, bouncing off his armor to clamor on the ground. She did not even bother to wait around to see if he picked it up. His stupefied look was enough as she took her leave for the inn. Seems like she'd have to travel further still to find her paradise.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Here is chapter two of my story! I know that it is insanely short, I just could not find a way to extend it. As such, I will be posting the third chapter this Wednesday. Also, I have a confession to make. While this is written for Skyrim, my heart really belongs to The Elder Scrolls V: Oblivion. As such, I did my best to remember the right names, and did research at the time of having written this, but as always, mistakes are possible. If I made one, please let me know and I'll correct it! Also, THANK YOU to those who have reviewed. Your feedback has been very heart-warming. I hope you enjoy this mini-chapter that it is, but if not, let me know that, too! And, of course, The Elder Scrolls are copyright to Bethesda. I only own Sorcha and Norring.

**Summary: **A tale of blossoming love in the wild lands of Whiterun and the way it all burns down in the end.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

One thing she never tired of was chopping wood. There was just something in relying on her own strength, of feeling a sense of power that didn't come from magic. But even still, three days' worth was a bit more than she had been expecting, and more than she had been wanting to put in.

She was sure that was haughty work for most people. Except, perhaps, those annoying Companions.

She swung and missed, instead burying the axe into the trunk. She fell against the handle, wiping sweat from her brow. Even if the sun was behind the city walls, the air was surprisingly hot, and at this rate she still had one more days' worth before she would have enough for the carriage to take her to Winterhold.

"So much for leaving as soon as possible," she grumbled.

"Do you always talk to yourself?"

She started, only to look over and see _him_. The Nord. Her glare conveyed it all before she turned back and tried to wrestle the axe free. He only watched her struggle.

After a few minutes, she snapped out, "Any particular reason as to why you're here?"

She could hear him shuffle in that stupid iron armor just as the axe loosened. She stumbled back a bit, but it was nothing she could not handle.

"It's just that—" his voice sounded like it descended down from the divines. "I have been seeing you running around these past few days doing work for…well, everyone."

She fixed the log she had missed, and aimed. With it splintered, she had to look over, through wisps of light brown hair, to see his red-faced gaze. "Yes. And?"

"And," more shuffling ensued, and he looked everywhere but at her. "Well, you must really need the coin. I just thought I would return the one from the other day."

This caught her attention. Straightening out, she looked over to see him toss said coin back and forth between his paws for hands.

She raised a brow. "Don't trust those Bretons, do you? Afraid the coin is dirty?"

His hand closed over it; his eyes narrowed. "No. You're obviously trying to get out of here. Far be it from me to keep you here any longer than necessary"

She snorted, and went back to placing another log to split. "Keep it. If you've been able to take note of my happenings, then the divines know you haven't had enough work yourself."

Still, he looked unsure when she snuck a glance before swinging her axe. With that done, and his silence persisting, she decided now was a good time to leave. So, placing the axe down, she traded it out for what she could carry of the firewood for the inn keeper.

"I could help with that," he said. And yet, she'd noticed, his only move to actually help was a hesitant step.

"Stop pitying me, Nord! I'll be gone soon enough."

"It's Norring!"

She stopped, looked back, and for the first time caught a look that felt familiar, and reverberated back into her heartbeat, damn him.

Without saying anything she turned back, red faced, to go find Hulda.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **As promised, the third chapter! Again, please, I tried to make sure everything fit, that I had all the names right, but if I made any mistakes don't hesitate to let me know! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I do not own any aspect of The Elder Scrolls, that would belong to Bethesda. I only own Sorcha and Norring. Now, I also want to note that this is basically the first time I've ever written a fight scene. Have any tips that would make me better? Please don't hesitate to tell me!

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**Chapter Three**

"Are you sure this cannot wait, Hulda?"

Sorcha shuffled from one foot to the other, a days' worth of hard work drenching the ridiculous, itchy clothing the frowning woman before her had gifted days before out of pity.

"They did say the bandits were getting pretty bad along that trail. That's what you're getting at, yes? Well, don't worry! The Companions went out yesterday to clear them all out."

She could practically feel her soul deflate; the way her shoulders fell didn't do the burden on her heart any justice.

"Oh. So they're patrolling."

Hulda seemed to have not heard her lack of enthusiasm. For she smiled and planted her fist into the palm of her hand. "Aye. You ought to be safe. Besides, don't you need the coin?"

Hulda had her there. Whiterun had been her refuge for nearly two weeks at this point, and she wasn't any closer to Winterhold.

And it was that fact that had solidified the Breton's resolve. With a sigh, she held out her hand. "What's the job?"

A huge grin spread about before the forlorn woman was given an old parchment letter.

"I am in desperate need for more lettuce, but the farmers I usually get it from have fallen ill for some time now and lost their crops. There's been a high demand, so an old friend of mine has offered some of her crops. She said if you could head over there, she'll lend her horse to bring it here and back. Do that, and she'll reward you nicely. We both will."

Her, ride a horse?

She'd only done it once, and all of Markarth was still hunting her down for it.

"It'll be enough," Hulda added softly. "Enough to get you where you want to go. Even if you do indulge in that habit of yours."

Sorcha snatched the letter. "I shall be back in the evening. Hopefully," she grumbled at the end.

She knew full well where Hulda's old friend lived. She had heard enough stories from her time here, and Sorcha did not like it one bit. There were almost a dozen other farms in the area, did she really have to go to the one that was right on the edge?

But that was the bitterness talking, and as she walked towards the hold gates, she realized this bitterness was misplaced.

Rorikstead may be nestled under the thumb of countless Foresworn, but they knew only peace. In land untouched by The Reach, why would they fear those madmen?

At this point the sun was at its highest peak, and if she jogged most of the way, it'd still be dark before she got back. Could she afford to stay in Rorikstead?

…Technically no, she could not, which was why she was taking this winding path through the hold gates to begin with.

This had to end soon. As in, once she got paid, she decided. Just take the money and go straight to the carriage driver. No more tomorrows.

At this point, she wasn't even sure what was keeping her around, and as she ventured the path to Rorikstead, she tried to wrap her head around all the possible reasons.

For hours this occupied her mind. It wasn't until she heard a war cry, and the sound of destruction magic – a loud, static that was quickly followed by an explosion – coursing through the air, that Sorcha bothered to snap back to reality.

Of course. The Companions were just off the beaten path, fighting someone obscured behind a crude protection ward. And, as the fates would have it, her _hero_ was among them. Four against one. She snorted at the unfairness – yet, how was there still a battle? – and was about to head on when she saw two more people running downhill towards the battle.

She froze, her heart leapt to her throat.

There was no mistaking that swathe of brown, those bone headdresses. And when one of them summoned a flame atronach, turning away became impossible.

Foresworn _never_ came down from The Reach.

The Companions heard The Foresworn coming before they saw them. Their reactions were instant. The Dunmer and a Nord, a darker blond from her hero, broke formation to tackle the mage and her atronach. Her hero stayed with the novice, and the older Nord from the shrine that fateful day, went after the last.

Sorcha ran, and found that once she had started, she couldn't stop. The first Nord was also the first to go down. The Dunmer looked weakened. By the time she was close enough, he too had fallen and her heart crawled higher and higher.

Don't let that be her, she begged – but to who? She still did not know.

Sorcha made it, throwing a bolt of ice towards the atronach right before her dagger stuck into the unsuspecting summoner.

The Foresworn woman screamed, but she did not go down. Instead, she whirled around, the dagger lodged in her shoulder blade, and the rage she adorned increased when she'd found her assailant.

"_You!_"

"Brielle," was all she could find in her heart to say before slinging another bolt of ice, this one aimed for her face.

As Brielle cried in pain, the Breton turned back to the atronach the older Nord had begun to battle. Another shot, then she turned back to Brielle. The Foresworn swung out with her dagger, the very edge cutting through her bodice and slicing the barest of skin.

"I'll carve out your heart!" she hissed.

It was the last move she made before she was engulfed in flames. Her scream pierced the sky, and echoed long after she crumbled in a burnt heap.

"That was amazing!"

She jumped and whirled around to see Norring bounding up to her. Behind him the older Nord and the Dunmer were helping the first Nord up. Her hand fell away from the wound on her stomach. The blood was few and far between, spread out across her palm and fingers in little droplet stains, but this did nothing to soothe her pain.

"It was nothing," she answered softly.

He laughed, the sound as loud and as big as his presence. "Nothing, the lass says! You took out the toughest one almost single-handedly!" Then, just as suddenly, he straightened out and asked, "What are you doing out here alone, anyways? You might be tough, lass, but surely you've heard of the bandit problem? All the might in a single person won't do good against the amount of bandit's we've come across."

She shuffled one foot before the other. He was focused on her wound, little though it was. Now that the shock had subsided, it began to itch.

What business was it of his?

Instead of answering, and waiting around for him to ask even more questions, she nodded to Brielle's burnt corpse. Shouldn't she feel remorseful?

"That doesn't look like a bandit."

"No, that's a Foresworn. They live in The Reach. Seemed to be harassing women."

A chill went down her spine.

"And it seemed like that one you killed recognized you," said the older Nord.

The chill had become one that wracked her whole body, causing her arms to cross themselves before her. But before she could respond, he continued, his hand on Norring's shoulder. "They were down here looking for a Breton woman. Former spy, but they were too aggressive. A little desperate. Know anything about that?"

She met his gaze. "No."

"Kodlak, what are you doing?" Norring admonished. "This lass just saved your life! And you're going to accuse her of being one of them?"

The older man's eyes never left hers – the two others just stood by and watched, but she was not about to break in order to see what their expressions were like.

"Just what is a young woman doing out here alone?"

"Can a woman not freely roam?" she shot back.

Again, she was met with silence and piercing gazes. With a sigh, she pulled the parchment from the rope around her waist, thankful it hadn't slipped from the fight, and said, "Hulda sent me to pick up some lettuce for her. I work for her, and this is what she wanted."

This time, it was _he_ who got suspicious, the one who was just defending her honor. "You sure work a lot, lass. Where's all this coin going?"

Whatever they were expecting, it was certainly not how red her face got, and how sharply she turned away to keep going.

"If you aren't going to offer to heal me, allow me to go on my way so I can find someone who will!" she called out back to them.

"Hear she's been buying all the books," one of them said, and she picked up her pace.

"Hey, hey wait!"

She didn't stop, but she didn't have to for Norring caught up with her and blocked her path. "Let me accompany you," he said, flashing a large grin beneath blue eyes and the beginnings of a beard. "You did all the work for us, you ought to let us do this work for you. What do you say?"

She regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Was this really the same man who could hardly bother at all before the Talos shrine? The one who could hardly offer a hand before the inn?

"I won't be helping her!" the weakest Nord shouted.

"Yeah," said the Dunmer. "I've got things to do!"

"Like drink!"

"Bah!" Norring exclaimed, throwing his hand out towards them.

"I won't be sharing any of the coin with you," she informed him. Sorcha was not sure if the others had declined for that reason, or the Foresworn, but neither seemed to phase him.

And that made her all the more suspicious.

"Don't worry about it, lass!" He dug out a coin and grinned. "You already paid me."

She didn't see any way around it. With a shake of her head she murmured, "Alright." Yet, lifting her head to him, she could not help but ask, "Your friend believes me to be one of _them_. Doesn't that make you nervous?"

His smile never faltered. "You saved our lives. That's all I need to know. So, if you would, lass."

This wasn't the same man. This couldn't be. But damn it all, that pull she'd felt before came back, and it came back hard.

"Sorcha," she said finally. "My name is Sorcha."


End file.
